does the fully-fledged Imperial Yeoman do?
Grumbling and scowling (you must always do this, as it shows how
successful the powers have been in delegating a distasteful task to you,
and pleases them accordingly) with razor, soap and shaving brush in my
pocket, and a growling, sullen comrade with a towel and sponge in his,
we two set out in search of the noble steed. However, once out of sight,
we hied us down to some running water, where we shaved and washed, then,
filling our pipes, we sat down for an hour and chatted. Finally, we
returned disconsolate and horseless, only to find that the great man had
found it himself.

[Illustration: The Government has yet to strike the happy medium in the
sizes of the uniforms etc. which it provides for its troops.]

Sunday (26th). We got definite orders to march to Pretoria, the sick and
horseless men having left by rail the previous day in trucks drawn by
bullocks, till they could get on a more unbroken line. We paraded at 3
o'clock, and very shortly after starting my new horse became bad and I
had to again join the convoy. To-day we marched to Pienaars River, the
bridge here representing a badly-made switchback railway, and those
marvels of energy, the Engineers, working away merrily at it, with the
assistance of Kaffirs.

On Monday (27th) our _reveille_ was at five, and we marched to Waterval,
where we saw the fine, large aviary in which the Boers kept the British
prisoners till June, and the next day (Tuesday) we were up at 2.30, and
marched into Pretoria and camped on the Racecourse at 11 o'clock. No
sooner had I dragged my horse in and picketed him in our lines, than I
managed to obtain town leave, and, having hastily washed, I boarded a
mule waggon and was soon jolted into Pretoria. There I got Mails galore,
found my kit bag had come up from Cape Town, and met dozens of old
comrades in the Police, who insisted on making me have tea with them
(with _condensed milk_ in it, oh, ye gods!) and jam on real _bread_, and
generally made a fuss of me, and listened with amused attention to a
truthful account of the death of _Bete Noire_ and my subsequent
Dreyfus-like degradation. Rattling good fellows they were to me, and
under their benign influence the petty trials and inconveniences of the
past seven or eight weeks faded away like a dissolving view. The
authorities have also served us out with clothes. I have received a
lovely khaki tunic with beautiful brass buttons stamped with L